If you recall, I admitted I did not descend from royalty. But, my mother’s family, according to her, left England and arrived in America around the time of the Revolution. I naturally thought I would one day receive an invitation to join the DAR, the Daughters of the American Revolution, a very select group. An invitation never graced our mailbox. Apparently none of my ancestors ever picked up a musket or wore a funny looking hat. I guess they merely hoisted hoes and skinned squirrels to make their bonnets. I hope they weren’t designated cowards or traitors. It’s painful to admit that that is your lineage.

My father’s family, according to him, had a heart wrenching history. The story goes that Grandma and Grandpa were chased through the forest and out of Lithuania by the Czar’s army. It gets better. Grandma’s little sister was eaten by a wild boar, which seemed pretty exciting when I first heard about it. There was something I could pridefully tell my friends. When my father ran out of stories he swore were true, he’d make up others. Sad, funny, exciting. Every kid on the block wanted to ride to school in our car so they could hear his latest episode. It was impossible not to listen to the tales of Benny Leventhal. So, I guess that’s where I acquired the story telling gene.

As the years went by my own stories began to fill my head. One day in high school I typed minus fifty-seven words a minute. The page I was being forced to copy was utterly boring and I didn’t realize until I was finished that I’d started typing a much better story. My teacher didn’t think so. I got a ‘D’ in typing. I didn’t care. I still don't.

Well, enough about me. My next blog may be about you. So watch what you say.